


When I Told Dad I Was Scared Of The Thing In My Closet, He Gave Me A .45

by Heather



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Flashback, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-21
Updated: 2006-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heather/pseuds/Heather





	When I Told Dad I Was Scared Of The Thing In My Closet, He Gave Me A .45

**Author's Note:**

  * For [J.P](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=J.P).



Dean doesn't want to question Dad's judgment, but Sammy is more afraid of the gun than he is of the "thing" in the closet. He thinks sleepily of this at the same time he thinks longingly of his bed while he draws Sam a cup of water at three A.M. Dad has left them for the night to hunt, something he does just a little more often, now that Dean is big enough to look after Sam and himself both. Though it's also possible that it's because he trusts Sam not to burn the house down with minimal supervision; no one ever said Dean was the perfect babysitter.

"Dean?" Sam sounds sleepy as he says it between sips of his water while Dean leads him back to his room.

"Yeah?" Dean is sleepy himself, but mostly he'd like to go back to his room where there is a Metallica/Van Halen/Nirvana mixed tape and a certain borrowed magazine with his name on it. Dad probably knew he had it and had chosen not to say anything. His dad was cooler than other people's dads that way.

"What was it like when we had a mom?"

"I don't know." Which isn't true, but Dean is thirteen and already isn't one for long, sentimental speeches. He just wants to get his brother back in bed.

Sam thinks on this for a minute, and then says, in a small voice, "I miss her."

Dean makes a face at his little brother. "Don't be stupid, Sam. You don't even remember her."

"No." Sam admits, yawning widely as Dean tucks him back in. "But she looks nice in her pictures. And Dad says she was good at taking care of us."

For a minute, Dean says nothing. Ignoring the implied slight to Dad's parenting inherent in Sam's third grader babble, the first thing that comes to mind is the memory of actual cooked meals, the soft smells of make-up and perfume, and the way his mother used to laugh. The way she called them both "love." Then he snaps out of it with a shake of his head and says, "Dad's good at taking care of us, Sam."

"Not all the time." Sam reminds him in half sing-song-y tones that make Dean want to smack him just a little. He resists the urge for the moment.

"Nobody's good at taking care of kids all the time."

"Dad says that Mom was." The tone is still there. The urge is stronger. Dean should get a medal for this.

"Yeah, well--" He bites off a sharp answer and sighs. Reminds himself that whatever he says is getting back to Dad when he gets home and that Dad might be less understanding of the magazine and other things if Dean gets too impatient with Sam. "Just don't worry about that, okay, Sam?"

"Why not?" Sam asks, and he asks it in just the right innocent tone that Dean doesn't want to pop him for once, just wants him to go back to sleep.

He picks Sam's bear off the floor and carefully hands it back to him before he says something so ridiculously sweet, his teeth actually hurt as he says it. "'Cause I'll take care of you. Okay?"

A beat. Sam seems to consider the odds he'll get thwapped for saying something argumentative after that. They must look pretty high, because Sam finally settles into his blankets and says, "Okay. Goodnight, Dean."

Dean retreats to the door and flips off the light, but he leaves the door open and the hall light on. He knows better than to shut his little brother up alone in the dark. He's not as bad at taking care of his little brother as he thinks he is.

"Goodnight, Sammy."


End file.
